


Angels at Your Doorway

by prologi



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, HELLO NEW FANDOM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post series 4, also I guess there's hints of a vague D/s dynamic, guys I'm so embarrassed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prologi/pseuds/prologi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a slow day at end of a slow week, and Kent and Chandler are alone at the office. Blow jobs ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels at Your Doorway

The wave of unseasonably warm weather seemed to have brought the city to a halt. Everyone, including criminals, were catching what they could of the sun before an inevitable slide into a rainy, chilly winter. The whole week had been quiet, and the afternoon was flowing soft and golden and slow like honey. The office was mostly empty, all the paperwork up to date and correctly filed. Riley was taking a long overdue day off to spend some time with her kids while they were actually awake, Miles had disappeared to one of his secret haunts with a cup of tea and the sports pages of three different newspapers, and Mansell was rattling around the station somewhere, chatting with his friends and having quiet phone calls with Erica. Kent was the only one reliably found at his desk, though Chandler could tell all the way from his office whatever the DC was doing wasn't work. From the hand shielding his mouth and the wide delighted eyes he guessed the most likely candidate were video clips of animals.

Chandler himself was as close to bored stiff as he ever allowed himself to get. Everything in his office was in its rightful place, all casefiles tidied up to his exceedingly high standards. He would have fetched another cup of tea, but knew that if he drank any more the whole world would start buzzing gently at the edges in a way that was deeply unsettling.

He was saved from coming up with further busywork by a knock at the door. Kent let himself in without prompting, which was slightly unusual but not unheard of for such a relaxed day. He was in his rolled-up shirtsleeves, jacket abandoned draped over the back of his desk chair. The thing that most caught Chandler's attention, however, was that his tie was loosened and his first two shirt buttons were undone. A deep purple bruise was cradled in the hollow of his throat, framed by the crisp cotton. A bruise Chandler had left there last night.

”Hi, sir,” Kent said in greeting. He rounded the desk and situated himself between its edge and Chandler's chair.

”I have to say, this is most irregular, DC Kent.”

Kent rolled his eyes and leaned back a little, looking at Chandler through his lashes.

”I'm bored, let me blow you.”

”I beg your pardon?” Chandler stammered on pure reflex. Kent's responding smile was positively _filthy_.

”Come on, Joe, no one's here. I've always wanted to to suck you off under that desk. Indulge me?”

Chandler blinked up at him. Apparently he was taking too long, because Kent leaned down and kissed him softly. It turned rather less soft and rather more French in no time, and Chandler was left lurching forward when Kent pulled back to speak.

”Please? For me?”

”Uh, yes, sure, please,” Joe finally forced out, because there was absolutely nothing in his power he wouldn't give Emerson when he looked like that.

Emerson grinned at him triumphantly, in a way that made him look almost inappropriately boyish, and slid to his knees like it was the most natural thing in the world.

”Thank you, sir,” he muttered, eyes tracing Joe's body in a way that made sweat bead up at the back of his neck. Emerson wasted no time on ceremony, simply undid his belt and flies before diving down like he'd been waiting for this his whole life.

”Christ,” Joe panted, slamming one open hand on the desk. Emerson looked up at him with eyes alive with cockiness and lust, before leaning back just enough to pull his underwear out of the way. His hands fell to rest palms down on his thighs nearly automatically as he craned his neck to get Joe's cock in his mouth.

Joe gently rested his free hand in Emerson's soft hair, fingertips gently massaging his scalp as the other man did his best to turn him into liquid where he sat. It was phenomenal, like always, and he was so busy enjoying himself he barely spared a thought to the glass walls of his office. Emerson was so beautiful on his knees, eyes most of the way shut and lips rubbed red.

The younger man pulled away after a moment with what seemed to be monumental effort. ”Please, sir, pull my hair,” he forced out, before going right back to making Joe lose his blessed mind in his office where he worked every day.

The request made Joe's hand tighten in Emerson's hair even before the words registered. When they did, his hips twitched up uncontrollably and the hand still splayed on the desk convulsed against the pristine surface. The younger man's responding pleased hum was enough to get his mouth open.

”Fuck, Emerson, you are so lovely,” Joe said breathily, hand still holding his boyfriend's curls in a sturdy grip. The dirty talk had taken a lot of practice in front of mirrors and on the phone, but the way it was guaranteed to elicit a response had been incentive enough. He had no doubt it was objectively dire, as far as such things went, but handily here was no one else with whom he was interested in trying it out. ”I can't believe I'm lucky enough to have you.”

As expected, Emerson's movements stilled for a moment as his entire body shuddered in response. He resumed with a renewed vigour straight away, though.

”I'm going to-- I'm so close,” Joe whimpered. Emerson just glanced up at him and blinked by way of permission.

He couldn't keep still through his orgasm, his bucking hips and firm hold causing him to slip out before he was done, come landing on Emerson's lips and cheek. It was filthy and he definitely he should not have found it was attractive as he did.

At least he wasn't alone in that, because Emerson let out a whine that sounded almost pained as his whole body twitched. His eyes remained closed and his lips parted as he tilted his head to rub it into Joe's palm.

”Um, do you want a hand up?” Joe asked, feeling even more awkward than usual. He wasn't entirely sure on what the protocol was when you'd just come on someone's face.

”Mm, in a minute,” Emerson replied. He shook himself slightly and sat up straighter, although he kept a hand on Joe's wrist to keep the hand buried in his hair where it was. His hands shook a little as he tucked Joe back into his trousers and then went to open his own flies.

”Emerson?”

”Believe me, sir, I'm fine right here. Just keep talking.” He ran two fingers through the mess on his face before taking himself in hand, gazing up at Joe in his largely intact suit.

”Christ, you're something else,” Joe muttered, before collecting himself and rubbing at Emerson's hair. ”You're such a good boy, Emerson. Thank you for doing this for me.”

The praise, as ever, worked wonders. Combined with how much he got off on giving head, Emerson came in an amount of time that was probably lucky, considering the circumstances. Joe was already doubting his sanity (such as it was) for going along with this.

”Thank you,” Emerson sighed softly, smiling up at him in a slightly glazed way. Joe couldn't help but return it, even as he opened the second drawer of his desk and handed down a package of wet wipes.

Kent looked completely unashamed, even as he was wiping ejaculate off his face and doing up his shirt collar to hide the incriminating bruise. When he was done, he offered a hand and let Joe pull him more or less to his feet.

”Thank you, Joe,” he repeated softly and leaned in for a slow kiss.

”You're very welcome, though I question the wisdom of a repeat performance,” Chandler murmured in response once they parted. His hand slipped from the back of Kent's neck and down his arm in a smooth, solid line. Kent grinned boyishly at him and straightened up the rest of the way.

”We'll see about that,” he replied, and left the office. Chandler was still staring at him, feeling mildly shell-shocked, when Mansell walked through the incident room in search of coffee.

Christ. The things he did for that boy. (The things he would, without a single doubt. It scared him, sometimes, but for once he thought he could work through the fear.)

**Author's Note:**

> Uh. This is my second published fic, the first for Whitechapel. I don't really _do_ explicit stuff, because I'm an asexual lesbian and past attempts have tended to devolve into essays about quantum mechanics, but I gave it the old college try. (I promise there is something longer, technically better, and plottier in the works.)
> 
> The title is from the poem [Urban Angles by Elisabeth Hewer](http://prologi.tumblr.com/post/63398370190/angels-at-your-doorway-shaking-city-dust-from), for which I'm very sorry. Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are dearly cherished.


End file.
